


Redeux

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Era, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 04:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: "Working for Thomas Boleyn, ambassador to France, isn't an easy position for the entitled Henry Tudor. Working for Thomas Boleyn while being secretly in love with his daughter, the irresistible Anne Boleyn, is even harder..."--  InCerlueanInkRemix?





	Redeux

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [City of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320566) by [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens), [InCeruleanInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/pseuds/InCeruleanInk). 



> yeah....so, i said i wanted to write fanfiction of fanfiction and this kind of...reads like that. 
> 
> but it's also the first fic thing i've written during an albatross of writer's block, so hopefully it's a sign of more to come.
> 
> probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the work it's inspired by, but....the 'before' is before its chapter 1 and the 'after' is soon thereafter

** Before **

Anne steps out of the office doors with a spring in her step-- her father always gets her _the_ most perfect gifts for her birthday, and the one he just gave her is no exception.

Thomas Boleyn's assistant's desk, which was ( _thankfully_ ) empty when Anne arrived, is now occupied by its owner.

Henry Tudor's shoulders fill the chair and then some, muscles rippling under a pristine button-down as he reaches over to feed documents into the paper shredder at the right corner of his desk.

On the far left is a landline phone, one light blinking (her father had mouthed a goodbye and given her a one-armed hug upon receiving the call that lights up the switchboard presently). Closer to him is a bag of fast food, cardboard container of fries on top.

"Really? All the best restaurants in Paris within five miles of here, and you get," she asks, aghast, crossing her arms, " _McDonald's_?"

"I don't like snails," he responds, smirking before he slides a fry into his mouth.

Anne _knows_ it's to get a rise out of her (he knows how much she loathes American stereotypes about anything French-- behavior, cuisine, hygiene), and she refuses to let it work…refuses to let him ruin her good mood, or know that he gets to her.

To that end, she can't leave, not yet…and slides into the chair across from him, crossing her legs and holding them over one corner, slipping her purse off her shoulder and onto her lap. 

"I see we've gone for a subtle amount of hair product today," Anne says, reaching across and taking a fry.

"I see we've gone for a change of color scheme today," he counters; not making any visible reaction to her theft.

She twists an onyx ring -- albeit it in a gold band, the rest of her outfit is black from head to toe, from the blouse to the A-line skirt to the ballet flats -- around a slender finger and scowls.

He feeds another paper into the shredder, face impassive.

Anne sits, hating him, and her hate is a thing that feels alive, fiery; it makes her feel as if she were made of sparks.

When they were introduced, many moons ago, she had smiled at him. In the past, Anne had always been cordial, even warm, towards those that work for her father. The smile was simply her being polite (given his reaction she'd wondered, in paranoia, if it had looked like a beatifically idiotic _grin_ …she had thought he was handsome, but she's always had such great control of her expressions that she doubts it was _fangirlish_ ).

His returning expression could not have reflected her own less-- blank (although his handshake was pitch-perfect); and utterly devoid of a smile.

Ever since, she's felt like that smile is a gift she wants to take back. She's felt it as an acute embarrassment, an unbearable weight.

And she doesn't get smiles-- ever-- even though she sees him give them to others, her father especially. To add insult to injury, his is beautiful, sunny, full…the smile of a Kennedy.

But _Anne_ is never on the receiving end of his smiles…only his smirks. Or small, close-mouthed facsimiles of smiles, never a genuine stretch of the lips.

"What brings you here today?" he asks, resting a high cheekbone against his curved hand, elbow on desk.

"He wanted to give me my birthday gift," she says, racking her brain for insults ( _it's called 'multi-tasking'_ ) as she lifts the book (a collection of letters written by Simone de Beauvoir) from her purse.

Henry visibly startles, jerking in his chair somewhat, which in turn startles Anne (she leans back in her chair slightly):

"It's not your," he says, adjusting the knot of his tie imperceptibly, clearing his throat, "birthday, yet? So why would he--"

* * *

"How do _you_ know when my birthday is?" she asks with a laugh, eyes glittering.

Henry feels the hummingbird pulse under his hand, at his throat, as he fidgets with his tie again.

He feels the terror of a dream where one is naked in public, or the fear any diary-writer always carries of theirs being read.

Because she can't know, of course, that he has the date memorized the same way he has the color of her eyes memorized, and the exact location of the two beauty marks that dot her jaw, and… _this is solved really easily_ , if he tells her how he discovered it in the first place, _actually_ :

"It's not as if I don't have to look at his calendar multiple times a day," he says smoothly, "y'know…what with being his assistant and all?"

"Oh…right. Well, yeah, it's not, he's just not going to be around in person to wish me one on the actual date, since he has that conference? So he wanted to give me mine early."

"Oh, cool."

Anne arches a single, dark and well-manicured brow.

_'Oh, cool'? Kill yourself._

"Well," he says stiffly (squirming, although not outwardly, thank God-- inward squirm only-- under her searching gaze), "happy early birthday."

The office phone at his rings ( _small mercy, that_ ), and Henry has get out of his seat slightly to reach across his food and answer it, in French:

"Office of Thomas Boleyn, U.S. ambassador; this is Mr. Boleyn's personal executive assistant…"

Anne gets out of her chair before he's even finished the memorized spiel. He takes comfort in the autopilot, settles into it as he reschedules the appointment to an available spot in Boleyn's Google calendar.

Mortification will settle in later, but at the moment he's grateful for its reprieve.    

* * *

                          **After**

He had expected the floor, a pallet or yoga mat, maybe-- and was certainly willing to take it. He had taken a t-shirt (several sizes too large and long for Anne's frame, but one that was snug around his own shoulders and fell to his waist) to sleep in that was covered in a faded depiction of Sailor Moon, and flannel pajama pants filched from her taller roommate's room (she would be there early the next morning, and not be too pleased to find a stranger in her bed, Anne explained…although she did let him use her bathroom), with no complaint.

Instead, Anne lifts the corner of the quilt on the opposite side of her bed.

"Oh," Henry says, flustered, "I thought…the floor? When you said--"

"I'm not coming on to you," she quips, smirking, "don't worry, I just--"

"No, I didn't think you were--"

"It doesn't seem fair to make you sleep on the floor when you're doing me a favor, is all."

"You don't owe me anything, I just…thought that'd be more comfortable for you."

"You don't have to if you don't--"

"No, I'm-- if it's alright with you, I'll take it, of course."

She nods, once, smoothing her hair-- slightly damp, black and gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp-- over her ears.

He settles, putting his phone down on the armchair near her bed.

"Can you…I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry. I'm happy to help."

Anne emits a sound, somewhere between a huff and a laugh, hands pressed over closed eyes.

"It's so stupid, I just…can you check to make sure I locked the door?"

"Absolutely. Do you want me to check just your apartment door or the downstairs as well?"

"Both," she says, muffled behind her hands.

* * *

He returns after checking both (both were locked, but he doesn't mind assuring her of that) and re-locking the last behind him.

"Both locked?" she asks sleepily, lying on her side, facing the slightly opened window.

"Yes."

"Was there anyone outside on the sidewalk, or near the front door ?"

"No, I checked. Just a stray cat."

"Thank you," Anne whispers.

"No problem," he says, easing himself onto the mattress, "mind if I turn off the light?"

"No, go ahead."

He lies on his side also, eyes drifting closed as he feels the cool breeze on his face.

The last image before closing his eyes was her hair, spooled behind her back like an inkstain on the white sheets, in the darkened room.

Over him is a satin comforter, slightly cooling his arm. He tries not to fidget too much, not wanting to wake her from well-deserved rest.

The comforter rustles, he feels the mattress move.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Henry opens his eyes, and draws breath sharply -- he should count himself lucky he didn't give a more audible gasp, he supposes. She is luminous in the dark, eyes shining, skin glowing and even in the dark he can see the contrast between the crisp-white of the sheets against the darker gold of her skin…the beauty marks on the hollow of her throat, like two dots of brown paint.

"Are you annoyed," she asks, voice going to a higher pitch, wide-eyed, "did I wake you?"

 "No, not at all...and, of course. Of course…ask whatever you want, I mean."

"Do you remember the day we met?"

"Sort of," he says, shifting slightly against the pillow.

He remembers it down to what she was wearing.

"Why did you not…smile back?"

* * *

The silence is deafening, she can make out half of his mouth twisting.

"Was it just… a bad first impression, or? I've always…wondered. I shouldn't…care, so much, but it's always bothered me. I usually make good impressions," she babbles, rubbing her cheek, "or _think_ I do, I guess, so I wasn't…used to it."

* * *

"It's okay," Anne chatters, turning from her side to lying on her back, "never mind, it'll probably just…hurt my feelings, I don't know why I asked, and I probably _don't_ actually want to know."

His hand trembles as he drags it across his mouth; he then twists fingers in his hair to try to keep it steady.

"I don't think…it'd hurt your feelings. It might…make you uncomfortable, though. I'm not sure."

He feels like something is stuck in his throat.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep unless you tell me, it…keeps me up at night, truthfully."

He glances over, startled at the admission.

Anne's gaze is tilted to the ceiling; she's biting her lower lip, the cheek he can view is filling with color.

That shouldn't mean… _nothing_ , he doesn't want to read too much into it, and yet… _something he did 'keeps her up at night'_?

It's _not indifference_ , at least, but it doesn't take his nerves away, doesn't take away how his heart hammers against his chest at the prospect of correcting her misinterpretation.

It'd be _so easy to lie_ \-- say he was having a bad day, and that was all. That would be the practical thing to say; the safe thing to say, the thing that would decelerate his current heart rate.

"I…didn't smile back because I was stunned."

"Stunned?"

_Dumbstruck_ , _thunderstruck_ , would probably be more apt descriptions, but he can't manage that…he's surprised he's even managed this.

"Yes."

"By…what?"

"Are you really going to make me say it?" he asks incredulously, laughing nervously.

"I don't…by _me_?"

* * *

"Yes, by you," he says, a teasing lilt to his voice, "is that so surprising? You _are_ …stunning, so."

Anne finds herself dumbfounded.

She's a translator by profession, _for fuck's sake_ \-- she's supposed to be _good_ at reading between the lines.

But she's misread them totally, it seems. 

"I'm sure I'm not the first to be stunned," he continues, cheekily, flipping over so that he's on his back, too, hand behind his head over the pillow, "I'd bet money I won't be the last."

* * *

"I see."

_Sounds about right._

"Yeah," he says, doing his best to sound nonchalant, swallowing a lump in his throat, "not a big deal, so…hope that sends your mind at ease, at least."

* * *

_Not even close._

Hard to believe that mere hours ago, she was trying to sneak covert glances at Henry's table at the restaurant. Incredible to remember that she was jealous, and flustered that she felt something as immature and unfounded as jealousy at another woman on a date with her father's assistant.

Her father's assistant; who didn't even like her very much.

So she had thought.      


End file.
